A Sleeping Humpty Dumpty Beauty
by brytewolf
Summary: AU. Bones is working a shift at the Academy's Emergency Room, when a critical case is brought in and he helps patch the patient back together. Afterwards, he continues to be drawn to his patient's bedside.


**A/N:** This was written for avictoriangirl, over on LJ. She wanted a Jim/Bones fic, and I had an idea that was _perfect_ and I just had to try.

I've never done anything Jim/Bones before, haven't even actually read any. This idea was originally for nurse!Jim and Spock, but these two fit it so much better I had to try it out. I'm not exactly happy with my Bones voice, but I tried!

This story has not been betaed, or even re-read more than once. If there are any mistakes, please notify me, and I'll happily correct them!

**

* * *

A Sleeping Humpty Dumpty Beauty

* * *

**

It was the end of a thankfully boring day at the Academy's Emergency Room. Like most modern universities, the Academy had its own extensive hospital facilities for the purpose of training its doctors and nurses for life in the high stress environment of space medicine.

McCoy enjoyed his time at the ER best, if only for the simple reason that more stress meant less time for people to talk to him. Or, in his case, usually avoid – his anger tended to make people keep away from him, which was exactly his intention.

Too much pain and the wounds left from his ex-wife meant he wanted as little to do with people as possible. Noticing a nurse walking in his direction, he resolutely crossed his arms over his chest and turned away from her.

That woman was far too persistent for her own good. Hadn't his scathing rebuttals given her any clue that he wasn't interested? After Jocelyn had left him, taking everything he'd owned or cared about, he'd thrown himself into Academy life and his medical career. He didn't want relationships holding him down, didn't care what other people thought and sure as hell didn't want any reminders of how much a simple smile used to bring him joy.

But there is nothing to distract the nurse, and she comes to stand in front of him.

"Isn't this just great, Lenny? _Finally_ some time to relax and just enjoy ourselves!" she says brightly, causing him to twitch visibly. He _hates_ the name Lenny, and no matter what he does he can not rid the insufferable woman of her habit.

"God damn it, woman, didn't I tell you not to call me that already –" he begins a tirade, grateful to have an excuse to push the woman further away.

His rant is cut short when the door to the Receiving Room slams open, an antigrav gurney rushing through with a gaggle of anxious staff around it.

Immediately picking up the desperate feeling in the air, McCoy launches himself from the wall he'd been leaning against, and joins the flow of medical personnel around the gurney.

"What's happened?" he asks the instructor on duty. The instructor and he are the only qualified surgeons on duty, and the gurney is unerringly making its way towards one of the Operating Rooms.

The instructor cuts off her discussion with the paramedic, and turns towards her assistant, "Great, McCoy, you're still here. We've got a bad one, and I'm going to need all the help you can give me."

As they walk, the instructor is bringing up the readings on the biobed gurney, checking on the internal damage the paramedics can't discover on their own; "For some reason those idiotic Command Track cadets thought it'd be a great idea to experience the freefall of a space jump by launching themselves off a cliff. This one's parachute didn't open."

McCoy gulps, the enormity of the situation immediately apparent; "How did he make it?"

Glancing up, the instructor meets his eyes; "If it hadn't been for the suit he's wearing, he wouldn't have. It was able to stop the blood flow before he died, and automatically administered so many drugs it was able to stave off anything else from happening before the paramedics could get him here. As it is, he's in the worst shape I've ever seen anyone in and still be alive."

And then there's no time for words, as their assistants are scrubbing their arms and getting them ready for surgery. Once they are properly prepared and sterilized, they make their way into the operating room.

Knowing what to do without having to be asked, McCoy goes over to the control panel for the organ replicator. That kind of a fall was guaranteed to damage internal organs, and anything past repairing would have to be replaced.

The instructor is at the panels for the biobed, releasing the cocoon of protective wrapping so they can get him out of the suit and begin the surgery. Presses the series of controls that release the pressure suit, revealing the cadet's uniform beneath. The maroon color is now an unnerving shade of crimson, the blood loss deepening it disturbingly.

"Cadet James T. Kirk," the instructor reads off the name decal on the right breast, before she begins delicately slicing the clothing off their patient.

McCoy's head jerks up at the name, remembering a flash of a news story he'd read two years ago. The prodigal son of one of Starfleet's most decorated heroes entering the Academy, hoping to live up to his dad's legacy. He angrily shrugs the information aside, refusing to allow anything to get in the way of his job.

With sure fingers McCoy pulls up the readout the biobed automatically fed to all of the systems wired into the operating theater, going immediately to the list of damaged organs. Reads them off as he sends the order to the replicator.

"We'll be getting a lung, liver, gallbladder, both kidneys and Jesus this list just keeps going." He tells the instructor, programming the replicator to begin creating them off the records residing in Academy computers on James T. Kirk. The system will automatically send them out in their bags of plasigel as soon as they're done being created.

The uniform having been removed, the instructor starts to position him for their first reconstruction; "He also broke both legs, his hip bone, and quite a few other bones we'll have to set before we're through. If you're done with that, come over here and help me situate him so we can get Humpty Dumpty put back together again."

Complying, McCoy makes it to her side and takes hold of a foot, helping her shift him delicately to a better position. Glancing up, his eyes rest on the face that was removed from that protective helmet.

And his movements still, his breath taken away by the rugged good looks of the face that was revealed. Shaggy blonde hair frames a face that must turn heads no matter where he goes, the chiseled good looks pulling attention like a magnet.

Noticing his distraction, the instructor follows his eyes. Gives a little frown, that McCoy is amazed is not directed at him but the body they are going to desperately try to piece back together; "Shame it had to happen to him, huh? At least nothing happened to such a pretty face."

Anger comes from some place inside him he has not wanted to acknowledge for some time. It's triggered by those words, that damn nonchalance and the callousness that speaks that pretty people deserve more than those that aren't.

"It's his own damn fault he jumped off a cliff. Being pretty has nothing to do with thinking you're too damn invincible to have some common sense." Before he even realizes, the words are past his lips. And somehow he can't be sorry they were spoken.

The instructor glances at him, her lips pressed into a thin line, before she gets back to work. Serves her right. And McCoy doesn't give a damn what her personal opinion of him is – just like he doesn't care about everyone else's – he's secure in the knowledge that his expertise in his chosen field can get him any assignment he could ever desire when he graduates the Academy next year.

In steely silence they begin their gruesome work.

(*)

Unbelievably, it takes them twelve hours to finish putting all the pieces back together and reassembling Humpty Dumpty as best they can.

McCoy is nearly dead on his feet, the last of the stimulants finally wearing off. There's no longer a need to administer more, as he's excused from classes for the remainder of the day.

In silence, the instructor stomps off the moment that they're finished with their work and she can be pealed out of her sterile coverings. Grateful that she's not going to stay and force him to give her another tongue lashing in his exhausted state, he waits for the tech to remove him from his coverings.

One of the nurses arrives to take possession of their patient, in charge of wheeling the antigrav biobed to its temporary room.

Somehow, McCoy can't bring himself to leave quite yet, and wanders in to watch the nurse collect his charge. Something in that face, a sadness and loneliness hinted at that reminds him of his own, calls to him.

So he finds himself trailing the nurse, who eyes him critically; "I know how t'do my job, Doc."

McCoy returns the critical eye, then decides to be nice just this once; "I know, Jacobs. There's just something about this one." He mumbles under his breath, unable to stop himself as he watches his hand reach out and brush the side of the gurney. As if he needs reassurance for something.

Jacobs gives him another considering look, then shrugs. "I noticed he's a purdy 'un, too. You getting ideas?"

Flashing a glare, McCoy immediately regrets his earlier compliment; "Of course not, are you crazy? I just spent 12 hours piecing this man back together, and it's my right to make sure he stays that way!"

He finishes the tirade with a harrumph, hoping it's enough to scare Jacobs to a sufficient distance.

For his effort he receives a baleful eye, but no protest is made as McCoy follows the bed and its burden to its destination. Once there, Jacobs silently hooks the bed into the monitoring equipment lining the room, and promptly disappears.

McCoy stays in the room, silently watching that amazingly toned chest rise and fall to reassure himself that the man is, indeed, still with them.

* * *

He's able to resist his impulses for two days before he finds himself back at Humpty Dumpty's bedside. McCoy had heard some sort of buzz regarding his patient, but had resolutely refused to listen to any news, telling himself he didn't care.

So when he arrives to a gloriously empty room, he is amazed to find out his patient is not conscious. Confused, he checks the charts littering the room, and the readouts flowing from the monitoring computers.

Everything checks out. For all intents and purposes, the man in the biobed should be awake and responding. He's healing cleanly, not receiving any drugs to keep him unconscious. And yet, inexplicably, he hasn't surfaced enough to respond to anything in the two days since his surgery was completed.

Scratching his head, McCoy exits the room and hails a nurse. Is infinitely grateful to discover that the closest one is Christine Chapel, one of the few people on the face of the planet he feels has a good head on her shoulders.

Pulls her, by the arm, into the room and to the side of the bed. She glances at him, bewilderment in her eyes, as he points at his patient.

"What's wrong with him?" he asks, keeping the gruffness in his voice to hide the worry he can't rationalize.

"I don't know, Leonard. The rest of the doctors don't know, either – he just sleeps." She replies, looking down at the beautiful face against the pillow.

He grunts in response, then stomps over to the machines again. Shifts through their readouts, trying to get a reasonable answer from _something_. McCoy barely registers when he hears her slip out of the room, just grateful to be alone again.

But when she's gone, he has to fight the urge to turn around and just watch his patient – Kirk, James, _Jim_ he whispers to himself – and forces himself to continue reading the reports.

It lasts all of three minutes before he finds himself at the side of the bed once again. Leaning down, he stares at the planes of that chiseled face, memorizing the features. His eyes travel from the line of Jim's jaw up to his perfectly shaped ears, then to the rumpled hair framing that beautiful face.

Without consciously realizing it, his hand reaches out, tentatively touching the strands of spun gold that look so unbelievably soft. Runs his fingers through a piece that has fallen onto Jim's face, brushing it to the side.

His eyes widen in surprise as the faintest of frown lines appear between those perfect brows. Swiftly returns to a standing position, glancing around furtively.

But he is still alone in the room, and after several moments he is drawn back down. Less tentative this time, he reaches across and runs his hands through that hair once again, this time letting his fingers trail down Jim's cheek and across his jaw line.

It's undeniable. The frown line is there, more prominent this time. Reassured he isn't going crazy – not yet, anyway – McCoy leans down still further, repeating the gesture.

But this time, he finds himself whispering words he never expected to utter again, his Southern drawl pulled out of him; "Come on, darlin'. Wake up for me, would you?"

This time, the frown lines stand out in stark relief on that gorgeous brow. And Jim's head on the pillow shifts, turning noticeably away from his words.

McCoy doesn't even have time to revel in his breakthrough, as a clatter-crash of something falling behind him causes him to jump. Whipping around, he sees Nurse Chapel in the doorway, a tray of medical supplies scattered around her feet.

She has joy in her eyes, and before he can stop her she's gone – rushing down the hallway, calling for the doctor on duty to come quickly.

He gulps, dread making a cold knot in his belly. There's no point in trying to hide, now.

(*)

After a sufficient crowd had gathered, it had been determined – past his protests, ignoring his righteous indignation – that McCoy would demonstrate, for the group, how he'd gotten a reaction out of Jim.

He finds himself standing by the bedside, yet again – but this time, he is crowded in on all sides by all manner of medical staff and students. Terror is rising inside his skull, and his usual reticence to be near people is working a number on his nerves with all this wonderful new stress.

"So, McCoy," asks the doctor on duty, mimicking McCoy's posture by crossing his arms over his chest, "How, exactly, did you elicit a reaction from the patient? He's obviously still asleep."

Shooting one last glare at Chapel, who gives him an encouraging thumbs up, he abandons all hope. Tries to ignore the feelings of doubt and idiocy that threaten to overwhelm him, he reaches out a hand over Jim's head.

He feels like a fool. With all the advanced medical equipment available in the room, there's absolutely no need for a doctor to have physical contact with his patient in any way. He'd done it purely on impulse, and hadn't been doing it for the diagnostic properties in the first place.

No helping it now. Trying to stay as clinical as possible, he rests his hand on the warm forehead, brushing it along and down the temple.

Is reassured when those frown lines appear again, prominent this time. All his colleagues lean in, mesmerized, as he repeats the gesture again, this time dutifully adding; "Come on, wake up, Kirk."

The head obliges by shifting away from him on the pillow.

After several moments of stillness and awkward silence, the doctor on duty glances at McCoy.

"Is that all?"

Clearing his throat, he answers harshly; "That's it." Crosses his arms over his chest once again, erecting a barrier between himself and the unwanted scrutiny.

Trying to be helpful, Chapel chimes in; "It's more reaction than anyone else has gotten from him!"

He could have cheerfully strangled the woman.

* * *

After the humiliation caused by their last meeting, it takes McCoy four days before his curiosity and the undeniable pull force him to brave another visit.

This time, as the last, the room is empty. Though he understands there had been a flurry of activity after his demonstration, no one was able to wake Jim up or make him respond again. Even when they repeated the exact gesture McCoy had used, he had not turned his head – or even frowned.

McCoy had refused to consider _why_ the man had only responded to his touch, instead filling his time with more punishing shifts at the ER. The emergency staff was always desperate for more help, and had happily accepted him volunteering for more work.

He wanders around the hospital room for several minutes, delaying the inevitable by checking the readouts. They are the same as they were before – displaying irrefutable evidence that Jim _should_ be awake…but isn't.

Ignoring the tremble of fear in his heart, McCoy quickly leans in and repeats his gesture, unable to resist the urge. Or the nagging sense that he needs the reassurance, that perhaps _something_ in Jim feels the pull as much as that little part of McCoy does.

Relief floods through him as the frown lines appear, almost as if Jim is trying to pull himself up from some deep dark place all on his own.

"Come on, darlin', I know you want to meet me as much as I wanna meet you." his soft drawl surprises even him, his hand resting itself against that soft cheek.

To his immense surprise and utter delight, Jim nuzzles into his hand – the frown lines disappearing.

On impulse, he leans in still further, his breath tickling the eyelashes resting against that soft cheek.

"You're so beautiful, darlin'…wake up."

And presses a gentle, chaste kiss to those full lips.

The machines around him come alive in a glaring announcement of lights and noise, as the body beneath him shifts.

Those eyelashes lift, dazed blue eyes staring unseeing at McCoy. Eyes so blue they steal his breath away, the glorious sight sure to be burned into his memory for eternity. His heart beats, once, in joy before the terror overrides everything else.

And he disappears, as quickly as his tired feet can take him.

* * *

He refuses to leave the ER for anything but sleep for the next six days, not daring to give himself a chance to revisit his patient. He berates himself continuously for being a ridiculous, romantic fool – and can only be grateful that no one saw him entering or leaving the room.

And every time he closes his eyes, all he sees are those gorgeous blue eyes watching him.

It's the end of a twelve hour shift, and he's feeling dead on his feet when he gets paged to the front desk. Dragging himself to the nurse on call, he finds out what's needed of him.

When he's told, he can't believe his ears.

"What?"

"You are one of the doctors that operated on the cadet, are you not? The instructor is not currently available, and your assistance is required." The nurse comments, not even looking up from the charts she's going over.

Holding back a grumble, he scratches his head; "What's wrong with him?"

"Message didn't say. All they know is he won't wake up."

Mystified, McCoy moves on. Finds that his exhaustion has disappeared in the wake of a spike of worry. He tries to ignore the fear as he makes his feet simply walk, knowing the way to Jim's room without having to think about it.

Is surprised to find that the entire section of the hospital wing is ominously silent, all the rest of the patients having been discharged. Jim's door has been left open, and McCoy slips inside, closing it behind himself.

Whoever had discovered Jim's condition had gone, and McCoy is alone in the room. He doesn't bother to stop and inspect the readouts, moving immediately to the side of the biobed.

Grips the railing, as he looks down at Jim's face. His eyes are closed again, his breathing even as he drifts in slumber. There are several beads of sweat on his forehead, and a shading of stubble that, if anything, makes him look even more dashing than before.

McCoy reaches down and brushes the beads of sweat away with a sigh.

"Come on, darlin', we've been through this once before. Wake up for me, sweetheart." Soft murmurs, things he hasn't uttered in many years and never expected to say again. Somehow, he can't stop himself.

The expecting shifting occurs, the face turning into his hand again. But this time, his palm can feel the subtle crease of muscles as a faint smile appears on those lips.

It's gone almost as soon as it surfaced, and McCoy freezes – stunned.

He still hasn't decided if he wants to run when a gentle, teasing voice tells him; "Perhaps the young…princess…needs a kiss from her prince before she can awaken."

His hand trembles, and he doesn't pull it away fast enough, knows that the man that cheek belongs to was able to feel the shivers.

Brilliant blue eyes open, blazing, to capture his – seeing him. Seeing through him, freezing McCoy in his tracks.

"They told me you weren't real." Says that voice, as beautiful as the man it comes from. It causes McCoy's heart to flip flop in his chest, crushing his defenses before he even has a chance at erecting them.

He can't help the harrumph that expels itself from somewhere in his chest, or the comment; "Idiots. Of course I'm real."

It earns him another smile, this one dazzling in its brightness – like a sun emerging from behind the clouds.

"Thought so." The eyes turn entreating, unbelieving, "Couldn't believe I'd make up someone as perfect as you."

McCoy gulps, trapped by those eyes, unable to put two words together and come up with a response.

Those eyes look away, down at the hand that is picking feebly at the IV in an arm.

"After the parachute didn't go off, I knew. I knew it was going to be bad, if I survived." Silence for a moment, then a whisper; "I didn't want to wake up, couldn't make myself wake up."

The wonder returns, the eyes exploring his face as Jim lights up from within, "But you…you wouldn't let me sleep. You woke me up, and what's more, I wanted to wake up. To meet you."

McCoy shakes his head from side to side, refuting the statement, "You don't know me. You wouldn't _want_ to know me, darlin'. I'm broken, and cantankerous and not even my ex could stand to be around me anymore –"

He's stopped by a look, and a warm hand on his arm; "You're not the only one who's broken." A self-doubting smile, as a glance is thrown at the plasticast that covers most of Jim's lower body, "In more ways than one. Let me find out if you're as perfect as my heart tells me you are. Please?"

He groans, looking away from those pleading, utterly beautiful blue eyes.

"She took everything, Jim. All she left me was my bones, and I –"

"Bones. I like it." Jim interrupts, his gentle words pulling McCoy's gaze like a compass points north. A fingertip presses against his lips, stalling any further protest.

"Just…let's try, okay? Let's try to find new pieces to ourselves, together?"

He can't help but smile at the words, at the little seed of hope that sprouts into a tiny sapling in his belly. He can try, for this man of so much light and warmth – he can try.

Giving in to temptation, he plants a tentative kiss on the fingertip that's still pressing against his lips. It earns him another breathtaking smile, and the hand retreats, exhausted, to settle on the bedding.

"Yes." he answers the question, putting all his hope and wonder into the word.

If he thought the previous smile was breathtaking, the one he earns with that simple word leaves him utterly dazzled.

Shifting more comfortably into the bedding, Jim closes those mesmerizing eyes with a smile.

"Now, about that kiss…"

With his own grin, Bones leans down and obliges him.


End file.
